fate fell short this time
by katriel1987
Summary: It's not perfect, but it's what they have.  Full summary and warnings inside.


**Title:** fate fell short this time

**Summary:** It's not perfect, but it's what they have.

**Spoilers:** Up to early S2. AU from that point on.

**Pairings:** Dean/Jo, in a dysfunctional way. No true love to be found here.

**Rating:** Teen, hovering on the edge of Mature. You've been warned.

**Warnings:** Non-explicit sex, violence, blood, character death (not the boys), minor language, run-on sentences, fragmented writing style.

**Category:** Drama, angst, AU, some het, some hurt!Dean

**Word Count:** 2,285

**Disclaimer:** Not mine; not getting paid; I'm just playing with them.

**Author's Note:** This is what romance looks like filtered through my brain: dark and mostly unhappy and not really romance at all. While I didn't hate Jo, I found her childish and a bit annoying, and not a match for Dean. So if you're wondering where the _hell_ this story came from, that makes two of us. Give it a chance, see what you think. Title from Blink-182's _Feeling This._

- - - -

It happens when Dean and Jo are stranded together in a remote cabin, surrounded by hellhounds, miles (_too far_) from Sam and Bobby and Ellen who are trying so hard to get there in time. They both know they're going to die, no way out of it, and as the sun sets on their last day, neither of them has to say anything. The awkwardness between them has melted away in the heat of urgency, and they both know what they need.

In the semidarkness, surrounded by the sounds of growls and snarls and claws ripping into weakening wood, they twist slide move in rhythm, life underscored in sweat-slick skin against skin, in joined gasps and cries. Death is waiting outside, certain of victory, and it's still somehow the most exhilarating night of Jo's life. That's kind of the point—the need to _feel_, to have something tangible (_slick wet in out_) to hold onto as the curtain falls.

Their salt ring holds until almost morning, and in the last moments before it gives way they look at each other, fairly buzzing with coiled energy, imbued with purpose. They're going to die but they'll go down fighting with memories of life and passion and skin on skin. It's not perfect but it's what they have.

They fight, and they go down. Dean first, hurt bad, claws and teeth ripping deep gashes, incisors crunching bone in the forearm he throws up to guard his throat. Claws slash across the backs of Jo's knees and she falls face-first, waiting for teeth to close over the back of her neck and _crunch_—

But there's shouting and gunfire and chanting, the hellhounds are banished, and Dean and Jo lie still in the dust and sicksweet blood and know that they're going to _live._

- - - -

Things aren't awkward between them afterward. They both know what it was (_fear, need, desperation_) and what it wasn't (_anything lasting_). Like before, they don't have to say anything; it's there in smiles and eyes and quiet understanding. It was what it was, and in the end it was good enough to keep them alive. They're friends now, easy and familiar in shared survival, and (_oh the irony_) Ellen finally stops watching them suspiciously.

They survive, recover. Jo walks with a limp and Dean's lost some feeling in his left hand, but they'll recover enough to do the job. Jo finds a case in Ohio, and Dean and Sam have one in Texas. They part ways easily, no need for promises or farewells.

It's almost two months later when Dean gets the call.

- - - -

It's Ellen Dean doesn't want to face. Jo's taking it all in stride, calm and ridiculously _okay_ with the idea, but Ellen is furious and hurt and betrayed. She punches Dean when he walks in, hits him in the jaw with everything she has, and he staggers back but doesn't fall. She hits him again and he goes down, dazed and spitting blood.

"How_could_ you," she snarls, and he doesn't bother trying to explain, knowing he could never capture in words what happened that night. He stares up at her, eyes a little unfocused, and waits for_griefangerpain_ to crest and fall.

But she's crying now, Ellen Harvelle is _crying,_ and it makes his throat close up because she's one of the strongest women he's ever met. "I never wanted this for my girl," she says, turning sharply away from him. "Never. I never wanted her to have to raise a kid on her own." There are memories in the words (sleepless nights and lonely days, never enough money time energy _anything_) and it's so personal that Dean can hardly bear to listen.

He sits up, wiping blood from his mouth. "She won't have to, Ellen," he says. "I swear."

- - - -

Dean's scared and nervous because _holy shit he's gonna be a DAD,_ but like Jo he warms up to the idea pretty fast. Truth be told he's always liked kids, and he has protective instincts to rival a mother hen's. This kid might be illegitimate (because no matter how menacingly Ellen cocks the shotgun, they're _not_ getting married), but they'll provide it with more love and safety than most legitimate children ever get.

They find out it's going to be a girl, and Jo, for some unknown reason, insists on the name Ivy. Dean bitches about his daughter getting named after a plant that doesn't even _flower_ for God's sake (at which point "Uncle Sammy" sarcastically suggests _Woolly Spiderwort_ as an alternative, and then has to show Dean a picture of said flower to prove it actually exists).

Jo's the one who has to give birth, though, so she gets her way. She also wants to name the baby after her mother, which in her mind logically suggests that they have to name it after Dean's mother too. In Dean's opinion, Ivy Ellen Marie Winchester is one hell of a long name for such a tiny kid. He suggests that they throw _Samantha_ in there too, just for the hell of it; Jo, reclining on the couch with her belly sticking out, motions him closer so she can hit him.

- - - -

At Jo's insistence, Dean is there for Ivy's birth. It's long and slow and agonizing, and toward the end a stubbornly drug-free Jo screams more than she did when hellhounds were chewing on her. Dean's in the middle of a silent, heartfelt prayer thanking God that he's not a chick when Ellen comes over and punches him again.

The baby's slippery and wet and red and wrinkly and ugly and the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. He's the second person to hold her, and she stares at him with unfocused murky blue eyes and then crinkles her little prune face into a wide yawn.

He sits there in bright lights and sharp antiseptic smell, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. This is his daughter, _his_ daughter, his _daughter,_ and there are so many things out there in the dark, and he's already terrified he won't be able to protect her from them.

"I'll keep you safe," he whispers to her as she blinks slowly and falls asleep. "I'll keep you safe or die trying."

- - - -

Ivy doesn't do much at first, just sleeps eats poops and tries to figure everything out. Dean takes to fatherhood like a duck to water—even changes diapers, although they make him gag sometimes. Ivy's a daddy's girl right from the start, wants him when she's scared or upset or cranky, and he's not sure Jo will ever forgive him for being the recipient of Ivy's first real smile.

Jo's a mom all the way through, and she grows up fast, loses most of the childish, petulant edges she had when Dean first met her. Ellen, for all her pessimism about the whole damn situation, falls helplessly in love with Ivy at first sight. Later, seeing how good Dean is with the baby, how honest he was about sticking around, she even almost forgives him.

Sam's awkward at first, big hands hovering uncertainly like he's afraid he'll break the baby if he touches her. He's never been around kids much, and he's not a natural with them like Dean is, but he learns fast and it isn't long before Ivy (or _Spiderwort,_ as he insists on calling her) is coaxing his dimples out of hiding. Isn't long before Ivy has dimples to match, and damn if they don't look just like Sam's, a fact which makes him inordinately proud.

Dean and Sam still hunt part-time, but they take cases within a few days of the Roadhouse, and on Jo and Ellen's insistence they stick to cases where they aren't overly likely to get killed. Now that Ellen's convinced Dean really does intend to be a father to her grandbaby, she's pretty damn determined to make sure he lives long enough for it.

- - - -

On Ivy's six-month birthday, everyone's quiet and on edge, the air around them crackling with unspoken history. Tension curls into Dean's muscles, stiffens his spine, and he won't let Ivy out of his sight all day. Even the baby seems to sense it, fussy and unsettled, absorbing the tendrils of fear emanating from everyone around her.

Ivy's nursery is small, but Dean and Sam and Jo stay in there with her, armed with salt and spells and symbols and (_useless_) holy water, hoping praying that it'll be enough, that they won't need it. No real reason to think the Demon's interested in Ivy, except that she's a Winchester and the bastard seems to enjoy destroying Winchester lives.

It's nearing midnight and Dean's _almost_ starting to believe nothing will happen, but then he feels it. The hair on his neck stands up, electricity shoots through his spine all the way down to his toes, the clock on the wall stops. _No, you bastard, not this time,_ and Dean lunges for the journal. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jo going for the crib, arms outstretched for the baby, eyes blazing with fear and anger.

Then the world goes white and red and sideways, and Dean's airborne and slamming into something _hard._ He comes down choking on sheetrock dust, feeling things grate and grind in his chest, sharp edges poking and tearing so that he's almost blind with pain. He forces himself to his feet, blinking wildly, ignoring the pain because _Ivy_and _Sam_ and _Jo,_ and then he hears Sam shouting in helpless fury and looks up and...

And...

_Four years old, Mommy on the ceiling, curly blond hair spread, stomach slashed, mouth gaping as she fought to breathe. _Only he's not four anymore and it's not Mom, it's Jo, and she's bleeding dying, _no no no._ Fire ripples out from her, flows across the ceiling like water, and Dean lunges for his daughter who's scared and screaming now, face turned from the heat. Sam's there suddenly, bloody and dazed but_alive_, hand on Dean's arm, dragging him through the doorway as fire explodes behind them.

Ellen meets them in the hall, screams denial when she sees who isn't with them, and Sam has to wrap his arms around her, force her outside with them, _nothing you can do Ellen, I'm so sorry, nothing you can do._

They stop outside, watching windows explode outward, and Ellen curses and cries in a raw, ragged voice. She rounds on Dean, eyes wild in the dim firelight. This is the Winchester Demon, the Winchester curse, and Ivy's a Winchester baby. Ellen loves her granddaughter, but her little girl is _gone,_ her entire family dead at Winchester hands, old wounds ripped wide open.

Ellen looks at Dean, who's bloody and pale; then at Ivy, whose red sooty face is slick with tears and snot. Ellen shudders, her face crumples; she can't place blame on the only family she has left. She reaches out for Ivy, her smoke-rough voice soothing the baby with lies (_it's okay, everything's okay_) and truth (_we'll take care of you, we'll protect you_).

Dean numbly hands over the baby and then collapses, landing hard before Sam can catch him, the impact driving shards of razor pain through his chest. Everything fades into a buzz of distant voices and crackling flames. Dean stares up at the sky and thinks _Jo is dead._ He didn't love her, not like that, but she was his baby's mother and she died for it, horribly (_bloodpainfire_), never deserved that. Jo will be nothing now, blond hair and a sunny smile in fading pictures, Ivy left without even the faint mother-memories Dean clings to.

Sound of sirens far off, and then Ellen's kneeling beside Dean, hands gripping his face hard enough to bruise, warm against his too-cold skin. She's swearing at him, harsh and desperate, _stay awake, dammit, eyes open, don't you dare leave this baby an orphan._

Dean blinks slowly, remembering Ivy, his daughter, his _daughter_ who needs him, and _Sam,_ little brother he swore to protect. He holds on.

- - - -

Dean's broken up inside, and the doctors shake their heads, temper predictions of _full recovery_ with warnings that his body isn't going to hold up to this forever. _You have to stop getting hurt like this,_ and he wants to laugh hysterically, wants to say _Don't you think I freaking KNOW that?_

When Dean gets out of the hospital, Ivy lights up at the sight of him, holds out her arms, bouncing with excitement like he's been gone months instead of days. She's cranky and on edge for a while, missing her mama and letting the world know about it. But six-month-olds are nothing if not adaptable, and before long Ivy's world narrows to _Daddy_ and _Uncle Sammy_ and _Gramma Ellen_, and she forgets she ever needed anything else.

They plan while Dean heals, huddled over maps and charts in the back room of the Roadhouse, doing their best to track the Demon with Ash's help. They're going to turn the tables, hunt the bastard down and kill it. They don't know how yet, but they'll find a way—for Mary and Jo, for Sam and Ivy, for every family on the Demon's list, for every baby it plans to taint, every mother it plans to burn.

Ivy's lost her mother, Ellen's lost her daughter, and nothing can ever undo that. But they still have a family—bent and changed by loss, shattered and pieced back together leaving cracks and holes, but it'll be enough.

It'll have to be enough.

**(fin)**


End file.
